I find myself lasering in on the most specific of sensations. The sun pressing down on my neck, tendrils of heat slipping under my skin. Our palms brushing against each other, making me overly aware of what his skin feels like against mine. The fluttery snippets of sound wafting from the dojo, hard smacks against the mat and Sensei Mary’s sweet voice calling out words of encouragement.
I breathe. I stare into his dark eyes, because there’s simply nowhere else to look.
And I find myself feeling grounded, like my feet are more firmly planted on the earth than they ever have been before. I remind myself how much I want to help Henry, this boy who’s been so stalwart in helping me.
“Let’s go,” I say, making my voice as steady and confident as I can manage. The nure-onna, I think, would be proud of me.
“You sure?” Henry says, jiggling my hand.
I nod emphatically. “Yes. We gotta get you some new moves.”
I wiggle my hips, my basic approximation of dancing.
“What was that?” he guffaws.
“These are my moves,” I say, shaking my hips a little more. “Um, my non-judo moves. My dance moves.”
“Those are not dance moves,” he teases, amusement lighting his eyes. “Doesn’t the Nikkei Week gala involve dancing? Has no one ever intervened on your behalf?”
“I don’t go to the Nikkei Week gala,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “Or any places where I will be required to dance, really.”
“Hmm. Things can change,” Henry says, his hand drifting to the small of my back.
He keeps his hand there as we enter the building, but it’s not like he’s guiding me or trying to steer me in a certain direction. It’s more like he’s reassuring me? Letting me know he’s there?
Why am I blushing again?
I bow as we enter the space, and he follows suit. Sensei Mary doesn’t really adhere to all the traditions and rituals of judo in the strictest sense, but she does like us to bow when we enter and exit, a show of respect.
In many ways, the dojo is exactly as I remember it when I first set foot inside as a kid. The high ceilings still capture the echoes of students training and Sensei Mary’s constant encouragement. The sunlight still pours in from the big skylights, casting an otherworldly glow over the space. And those dark corners still beckon to me, their shadows and cobwebs shrouding forgotten hand-wraps.
Classes have finished for the day, and Sensei Mary is leading her three p.m. session of five-year-olds in a series of unruly tumbling passes—she says it helps the kids burn off their excess energy after working so hard to focus for an hour. I remember I used to get stuck on the first somersault, my brow crinkling in frustration as I tried to get it right. Sensei Mary kept trying to tell me that it wasn’t about being “right,” it was about having fun. But that never seemed to stop me.
“Ohmygod, Rika?!?”
Before I know what’s happening, Eliza Hirahara is barreling toward me and sweeping me into a monster hug.
“Eliz—oof” is all I manage to get out before she’s slamming into me. Eliza is tall and wiry with close-cropped dark hair that sits like adorable tufty peach fuzz atop her perfectly shaped head. Her mom hates that hair, but Eliza is never short on admirers of all genders. Since a few of those admirers have already proclaimed themselves future doctors, her mom’s kind of let it go. For now.
“Where have you been?” Eliza demands, hugging me harder. “I’ve been texting you! I keep seeing all these photos of you on social media and . . .” She pulls back and makes an exploding gesture next to her head. “Mind blown by these adventures you seem to be having. Oh, hi, I’m Eliza.” She turns to Henry without missing a beat, extending a hand.
“Henry,” he says, laughing a little as they shake. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Interesting, since I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you,” Eliza says, side-eyeing me.
“Sorry,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry. Eliza, I—”
“Rika-chan!” Now Sensei Mary is gliding toward us, her face lit with a welcoming smile. Sensei Mary is always so elegant—the way she moves through the world is so thoughtful, so deliberate, like she’s being very careful to respect every single solitary object she might come across. It is the complete opposite of my destructive kaiju ways.
Sensei Mary envelops me in a hug—a softer hug than Eliza’s, but she holds me for just as long.
“Kiddo,” she says, giving me a little shake. “We’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, even as surprise tears prick my eyes. She’s called me “kiddo” since I was six. I feel like she’ll still be calling me that when I’m sixty.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, pulling back and facing them. “To both of you. I totally disrupted the parade and ruined the demo, and I know you worked really hard to get that UCLA scout to come out, Sensei Mary. And, Eliza, I’m sorry you didn’t get your shot to show off for them, I just . . . I was afraid to talk to either of you or even text back because I feel so ashamed about what happened. Like maybe you should have kicked me out when I bit Craig Shimizu. And . . . yeah. Sorry.”
I hang my head, my cheeks blazing as my eyes go to the floor.
“What the hell, Rika!” Eliza cries. “Er, heck. Sorry, Sensei Mary.”
“I know you all swear,” Sensei Mary says, and I can practically hear the eye-roll in her voice. “Just try not to do it around the littler ones.”
“Rika,” Eliza says, her voice urgent. “Why on earth would you think we were mad at you about that?”
My head snaps up. “Because I ruined everything?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Sensei Mary says, shaking her head at me. “None of those things were your fault—unless you somehow hired Grace Kimura to jump out of a car and
